Bums have long been assigned seats for this one. By the time the actors take to the carpeted stage, tension will be seeping through every crevice of the concrete walls of Croke Park.

In a summer when the sun refused to shine, the GAA has provided the best drama this side of a Greek amphitheatre. We have seen Cork hurlers raging against the dying light, Waterford flying too close to the sun and melting like Icarus (that wristy wing back who sported and played in the shadow of the Acropolis).

There has been Dublin's torturous long day's journey into night, in search of an elusive crown before darkness envelops them for another decade. And Meath, sauntering on stage with the vulnerability and attitude of a young Brando, only to be felled by Cork's unloved footballers, the Rebels without applause.

There is nobody in the rich seam of history's theatrical characters to compare with Richie Bennis, circa 07. Maybe the Bible could throw up a template for this force of nature, his eyes wild under a mass of unruly white hair, as he exudes passionate sound and fury in leading his people out of perdition. Maybe he's just stone mad enough to go all the way.

Tough titty, Shakespeare, you thought you had every angle covered. Nobody told you there would be dramas like these.

But if the fare on stage is riveting, then that on view in the depth of the masses in attendance can be no less enthralling. For out there, among the faces in the crowd, there are plenty of startling performances going on as the game unfolds. These particular actors are not performing to entertain. They are not doing it in pursuit of excellence. They have come to be redeemed, set free, unburdened. They have come to be sated.

If you have attended any championship matches you will have seen him or her . . .

this specimen is an equalopportunities loolah. They are in attendance primarily to give vent to the pent-up fury and frustration accumulated during a frantic week put down in modern, high-flying Ireland.

The occasion is an opportunity to let all that bad stuff get out, to cast it onto the afternoon breeze under the guise of attending a gaelic game.

He is usually grim-faced during the prematch build-up.

She refuses to let a smile crease her face. He is coiled for action, his shoulders hunched in a tense grip. She is oblivious to all around her.

Then the game begins and within minutes, at the most, he and she get down to business. It starts with a plea.

"Come on (insert appropriately inoffensive county here)", reasonable enough, offering no hint of the hurricane en route. After the first score, the first tackle, the first intervention by the referee, the pitch and volume changes.

Here, the vernacular descends into language formerly known as 'barrack room'.

From then on in, the noise emanating from his and her vocal orifices is unrelenting, haranguing, demented, delivered with two parts anger and one part frustration. This tirade is in turn directed at everybody on the pitch. His team, the other crowd, the referee. Even some who are not on the pitch, such as Jesus Christ, get it continually in the neck.

By half-time, the whole performance has raced beyond the parameters of passion and into the throes of psychosis.

For those in the immediate vicinity, it can evoke thoughts of murder, or at the very least, grievous bodily harm.

On one such occasion this summer, it occurred to me that he and she would have been ideal recruits for the Screamers, an outfit which resided in Donegal decades ago and believed in the redemptive power of screaming aimlessly in a room.

But in the absence of such an outlet, he and she turn up for the Championship, living out their own little drama, releasing all that tension pent up living in these frantic Tiger times.

Ask not what you can do for your county, but what your county can do for you. Let's be darned careful out there.